She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. Given time and the right environment, and he would outgrow these defects. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. She would write to Gerald. McClintock liked it. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. CHAPTER XVII.
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